


Forty Days of Darkness

by elenorasweet, sevdrag (seventhe)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apples, Asgard (Marvel), Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Clint Barton, Baba Yaga - Freeform, Blood Magic, Brandy - Freeform, Brigadoon (the musical), Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Dogs, Hydra (Marvel), Lara Croft AU, M/M, Magic, Marvel Norse Lore, Mythology - Freeform, Protective Steve Rogers, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Russian Mythology, Winterhawk Reverse Big Bang, much wine was harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-07-30 17:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/pseuds/elenorasweet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Clint and Natasha are rushing to beat HYDRA to some mythological source of immortality only referenced in Nat's notebooks and secret Hydra communications.  They end up stumbling into a magical valley, a terrible curse, two men out of time, a broken royal family, a witch's revenge, and more Hydra agents than they've ever had to deal with before. The dogs are okay, though. Clint makes sure of that.(Tomb Raider-based AU in which Nat and Clint hunt powerful relics, Hydra wants their hands on everything, Russia is cold, and the Tesseract has become something else.)[Posted for the Winterhawk Reverse Big Bang, 2019, artwork by Nora, to be linked as soon as I know her preference <3 ]





	1. The Winter Valley

**Author's Note:**

> [placeholder saved for Nora's absolutely beautiful art i love her]

Nat always says he’s too nice to people. Clint’s really enjoying the look she’s leveling at him as he chatters away with the nice young gentleman at the counter, who’s slipped them extra packages of supplies just for the pleasure of Clint’s company. Murmansk’s rich in wild foods, so they have dried berries and nuts and mushrooms for soup stock along with a dozen different kinds of jerky Clint couldn’t name if he tried, and the shopkeeper - Viktor, who seems either enamored or amused by Clint’s Russian - has described the best things they’ll come across to hunt on their way through the tundra. Clint’s currently acting out his bow, since he only knows archery terms in English, and he can _feel_ the weight of Nat’s stare right between his shoulder blades. Viktor’s laughing, though, and that’s okay.

Nat grabs the packs the second they’re loaded up, and Clint makes a very formal goodbye to Viktor, who grins at him as if Clint’s just completely mistranslated something important. Oh well. He waves, and sticks his tongue out at Nat. She scrunches her nose at him, which is her version of laughing these days.

Clint works to tie the packs up to the sled while Nat says her goodbyes to Galina, a friend - or, more accurately, an ex-associate - she’s known for a while. People in their field can have a hard time falling off the map, but Galina retired young to raise snow dogs in Murmansk Oblast and that’s pretty fucking far off the map as far as other current associates are concerned. They’ve rented two: Rosie and Pippy, grey and brown respectively, who are more than capable of pulling the sled with all of their supplies and gear, which means they can travel more flexibly than they’d originally thought. 

(Clint had wanted a car. A _truck,_ a good old American Jeep, a snowmobile. Nat had been convinced they’d miss things for going too fast. Since Nat’s the one with the supernatural clues, Nat usually wins, but Clint’s gonna whine extra loud about it.)

With the goodbyes finished and the gear in place, it’s time to head out. 

The sun’s already passed its midpoint. They’re only two weeks away from the polar night, which lasts around forty days in this area. They’re on a timeline, and Clint’s well aware of it as they hitch up the dogs and head south on their way out of Murmansk. There’s a low simmer of anxiety in his stomach - mostly anticipation, but some real worry in there too - and he knows it’ll just continue to rise every night until they find what they’re looking for. 

Or Hydra. Finding Hydra is the less preferable of their options.

Clint pulls out his mobile and connects it to their satellite network. The solar cells they’ve rigged on top of the sled and gear will do what they can; Clint’s also got batteries in his gauntlets that charge as he moves, and right now his mobile’s feeding off of those since they’ll be walking for a while. Nat’s already looked at the maps and the horizon and her family notebooks, so she’s leading, with the dogs in the middle and Clint taking up the rear. 

Murmansk Oblast really is beautiful, and Clint’s sure the landscapes they see on the way into the Khibiny Mountains will be incredible. He just wishes it wasn’t so fucking cold.

———

The first night Nat stops for a rest shortly after the sun finally dips below the horizon, and Clint wordlessly works with her to set up their temporary shelter. They’ve a more solid tent-like structure for the cold nights, but since this is more likely to be a pause, they use this bit that’s more like a windbreaker with a kind of weird roof and a waterproof tarp-like thing for the floor. They get themselves tucked in, check their dogs’ paws, and hit up their rations for a snack.

Clint’s pouring out water for the dogs and filling the pot with snow for more water as Nat slowly pulls her family notebooks out of the pack she carries.

“Here,” she says finally, and shoves one at him, open to what looks like a two-page map: a path from somewhere to an X, winding around, with star-charts inserted at various points and what appears to be an incredibly intricate charm down in the lower left hand corner. It’s labeled in an alphabet that’s part English, part Cyrillic, and part something Clint doesn’t recognize. 

“Thanks, I don’t know what this is,” Clint says, handing it back to her.

Nat wrinkles her nose at him. “I know, but I wanted to show you anyway. This is - supposedly - directions to the Apples of Immortal Life.”

“Lovely,” Clint replies, “but I’ve had quite enough life already, thanks.”

She rolls her eyes. “You used that joke two weeks ago when we agreed that this was the most likely target.”

“And it’s still funny.” Clint snaps finger-guns at her. “Tell me more.”

Nat’s reticent about her family history, about the Romanov library and the responsibilities that come with it. As a former merc, Clint of course wants as much information about a job as he can get, but he also knows how to work with Nat, and how to operate on a needs-to-know type of situation with her until she figures out what she’s willing to share. They’ve been a team for four years now, and the things she shares have opened substantially, but Clint knows she always needs this small period of time to work it through. He doesn’t like rushing her. Nat’s the best friend he’s ever had.

Now, she sips at her canteen and reclines back on her elbows. “The Apples of Immortal Life grow on a tree protected by a magical gate. The gate only opens during the polar night and only stays open as long as the sun is gone. The apples give - surprisingly - immortal life, great wisdom, and super strength, but they are poison to those who are not worthy.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, “that part I don’t get. Where’s Hydra gonna come up with an army of worthy people?”

“It’s a _legend,_ Clint.” Nat gives him the ghost of a smile this time. She’d stopped smiling after the events in Abidjan, six months ago, and he’s glad to see her coming back to it. “There’s always some truth that’s real, and there’s always some truth that can be ...bent.”

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, well, until we know that, let me imagine all of them choking on poison apples, okay? Very Snow White if you ask me. Even Sleeping Beauty would do.”

Nat just shakes her head at him, but she still seems amused. “This map, along with this charm, will light up the constellation we need to be following at any given time. See? They’re all directional, for this time of year.” Her fingers brush over the starmaps that are marked at the notebook’s edges, and they seem to glow momentarily under her fingers. The Romanovs used a lot of blood magic in their research, so Clint knows the map won’t work for him. “If we check every couple hours, it’ll keep us on track.”

“You’re sure we’re in the right area?”

Nat nods. “It’s somewhere in Murmansk Oblast. Either the Khibiny Mountains, or that secondary site we found over by Ozero Babozero. I know that much, at least.” They could have driven the E105 all the way into Apatity if they’d known, but there’s a lot of desolate hilly tundra out here, and it’s worth a slower journey to do it right the first time. (At least, Nat says so. Clint still misses the off-roader they didn’t get.)

Clint sighs, and settles down from his crouch onto his ass. “Well, Hydra doesn’t have that information, at least, so even though they have the head start, we might have the advantage.”

“What’s the news?”

Clint pulls his mobile out of the inner pocket in his jacket and boots up his compiling apps. They divide the work this way; Clint uses his network of mercenary contacts to keep an eye on parties like Hydra who make moves towards potentially world-changing artifacts, while Nat uses the Romanov Library and _her_ contacts to get a handle on the mythological side of whatever they’re dealing with. It works out well for both of them, better than anything they could have handled alone.

Nat snacks a little more and gives the dogs some jerky while Clint scrolls through his daily reports. “Nothing stands out,” he says. “Hydra communications are still hot with immortality talk, the Tesseract, and something codenamed Project Trickster, but nothing at all about Russia, let alone this area.”

Nat hums, and then shrugs. “We have time, take a good look. I’m going to activate the charm, see what it tells us from here.”

Clint’s perfectly happy to scroll through his mobile over watching Nat enact dubious blood magic. “Knock yourself out,” he tells her, and gets to work.

———

It’s so _cold,”_ Clint complains at Nat a few nights later, as they’re packing up the shelter to head out. 

She grins back at him. “I know.” Her voice is fond, because this is her kind of weather; the snow on the ground is crisp, still easy to walk through, and the tundra are solitary and abandoned and beautiful. The sunrises and sunsets have been bracketing their short days in watercolor brilliance; Clint’s never seen anything like it, the slopes of the hills around them and the distant mountains painted in golds and peach and rose like an entirely new world. The nights are brittle, so many stars above them, with a slivered moon that gives them just enough light to move forward. 

Nat’s always been alive in these lonesome, wind places. Clint loves seeing it as much as he fucking hates the cold. 

Right now the sun’s setting. Opposite, the sky darkens, and a few of the brightest stars are emerging through casual wisps of cloud. Clint won’t lie and say it isn’t lovely; he’s just _cold_ and he doesn’t want to walk it off, he wants a blanket and a big cup of cocoa with some whiskey in it.

After an hour or so the sky is dark and they pause to check the notebook. Clint holds the lantern while Natasha studies the sky, her brow wrinkled underneath her ridiculous hat.

“See,” she says, pointing over Clint’s shoulder. “Симаргл. Chained to Polaris, so that he doesn’t destroy the bear.”

“Simargl,” Clint repeats, knowing he’s somewhat garbling it. Nat’s trying to teach him astronomy - one of the few things she studied growing up that she truly enjoys - and he’s trying to learn, mainly so that if something happens he’ll at least know where North is. “If he eats the bear the world ends, right?”

Nat chuckles, and turns to orient the page with the charm drawn out against the horizon. “More or less, yes. If his chain breaks, he eats Ursa Minor and the North Star, and the skies fall apart without the North Star to anchor them.”

“Is it real?” Clint asks her. So many things are myth, but so many of them are based on truths he never would have guessed at staring up into the sky from Iowa farmland. 

“Don’t worry,” says Nat, distracted as she runs a finger along the axis of the charm to awaken it. “The Зоря guard it. The chain won’t break.”

“You’re humoring me.” Clint nudges her, and Nat wrinkles her nose at him.

“That way.” She points, an alignment _just_ different than their previous course, and Clint aims his mobile along her arm to record the direction of their route. Glowing charms and GPS: this is their life, now.

———

A few nights later, they’ve stopped to watch the sun come up and grab a few hours of sleep while there’s sunlight to charge their cells and warm their tent. The dogs have already curled up in the corner of the structure, and Clint’s shaking out the bedding while Nat lights the fire outside to start up some broth. They have fresh meat today; Clint isn’t sure what the animal’s called in Russian, but it looks like it will be tasty, and he’s sure he’s eaten far worse during his circus days. He chooses a careful selection of mushrooms, his criteria being simply which ones look coolest, and a fistful of the dried herb mixture Viktor had thrown in with a wink. 

Outside, Nat’s melting snow into the pot. Clint adds his offerings, and then gets to breaking down whatever Russian creature they’ve caught. Nat tips back onto her heels, her eyes closed, face turned towards the horizon where the sun’s about to rise at its sharp, lowered angle.

“So, Tasha,” Clint says, cause he wants to distract her. “I have a logistics question.”

Nat hums at him, but doesn’t open her eyes. Clint splits open the breastbone with his hands and begins to carve the meat into the pot, which has started to smell tasty.

“Let’s say we find a tree. And it has some apples. Yay! What do we _do.”_

Nat’s eyes blink open, and she turns to look at him, wrinkling her nose with an amused frown. “We keep Hydra from getting it.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, “usually we can just take whatever we find and hide it away in one of your ridiculous Romanov underground storage libraries or whatever. But Nat. It’s a _tree._”

“Destroy the apples,” Nat starts, and then frowns. 

“Are we chopping it down? Are we chopping down the tree of immortality, cause I didn’t bring an axe that can do that kind of shit.”

Nat shakes her head. Clint can tell he’s stumped her, a bit, which he really enjoys. “I assumed it would be obvious when we got there,” she murmurs. 

“Or are we just gonna make camp for forty days and forty nights and kill Hydra agents?” He brightens at this thought. “I wouldn’t mind that, either.”

Nat rolls her eyes at him. Technically she’s probably killed as many people as he has, but her life has been about artifacts, while Clint’s was temporarily about killing for pay. There’s a bit of a difference — Clint amends that thought immediately, because the Romanov Dynasty has been pretty bloodthirsty in parts.

“Dig it up,” Clint suggests. “Burn it down. Make apple dumplings.”

Nat shakes her head at him and moves forward to stir the pot. “We’ll figure it out when we find the tree.”

“Is the tree the Tesseract?” Clint asks bluntly, cause he’s curious whether all of her notebooks have any answers. “Are the apples the Tesseract?”

“The Tesseract is a magical artifact that was lost in 1945 when Captain America and his commandos sacrificed themselves to remove it from this plane of existence.” She shrugs. “It hasn’t been seen since.”

“Are there any connections, mythology-wise?”

Nat repeats the shrug. “The Tesseract supposedly gave individuals supernatural powers, super strength, created powerful energy weapons. The Apples give super strength, immortal life. So maybe?”

Clint frowns. “I still think they’re connected.” He’s been poring over this for the two months he and Nat have been preparing for this mission; Hydra started talking about the Tesseract at the same time they started talking about chasing down an immortality relic, and while it may not make a lot of surface sense, Clint feels like they have to be related. “Hydra’s dumb, but they’re not that dumb.”

“Clint,” Nat says, and there’s just the smallest edge of exhaustion to it, and he immediately feels bad. “We have to find it first. We’ll figure it all out when we find it.”

This kind of thing - pulling on the power of the Romanov bloodline - it isn’t easy for Nat to do. She finds the entire thing distasteful. “We will,” he reassures her, and tips what looks like an entire drumstick into the pot. Bones make better soup broth, anyway.

———

They sleep through the days - ever shorter, even Clint can tell - and walk throughout the nights, stopping every 3 hours or so to realign themselves with the starmap. Their route meanders somewhat; Nat jokes about her Uncle Grigory always being so lazy with his measurements, but she’s obviously more confident once it settles down into one straight directional alignment. It comes clear to them that it’s one of the smaller valleys tucked away into the Khibiny Mountains, and they set up camp a little ways before the path gets steep, to do recon. The entire mountain range is mostly unpopulated, although full of smaller mines for the rich mineral deposits that lie within. Clint wants to make a joke about treasure, cause he’ll never stop being that poor circus kid who nicked anything he could get his hands on, but there’s no way there’s anything out here that’s worth the absolute isolation.

They slide into their combat gear inside their little shelter. Rosie and Pippy are curled up around each other, making vaguely insulted sounds as Clint and Nat wrangle on their tac suits. They’re some incredible fabric Nat got from one of her contacts, and while it isn’t _quite_ as warm as the multi-layered-parka Clint’s been rocking, it’s a _thousand_ times easier to move around in, and he and Nat both need to be mobile to pull off their best tricks.

Clint straps on his main quiver and lets his bow ride on his shoulder for the moment. Nat’s still checking her knives and guns. They nod at each other, and then head out in a familiar pattern, just like the hundreds of other times they’ve done so.

“Just a path,” Nat says, when they’ve settled back into their now-camouflaged tent. “Looks more like a deer trail than anything, except there are a couple stairs worn into it when it starts to go steep.” Her face is bright, because adventure always wakes Nat up into her best state of being, and her eyes are narrow as they consider the possibilities. “Could be nothing, but the path went on as far as I could see through the scope.”

“Nothing on the perimeter,” Clint replies, reaching over to his pack to dig out their dried blueberries. “No signs of civilization, let alone HYDRA.” He always takes the outer edge of their scouting, with his better eyes; Nat’s got enough technology that she can handle the forward route, no problem.

She accepts his offering of blueberries, giving him the little nose scrunch Clint knows is a smile. “What’s your feeling? We can wait one more night, confirm with the charm that this is our path, or we can strike out another mile or two now before the sun starts to go down, see what we can find.”

It’s understood between them that Natasha only asks Clint his opinion when she knows the answer she wants, and Clint’s always been happy enough to give it back to her.

“Let’s go in. Stay suited up for now, make sure we don’t trigger any ancient protective monoliths or anything, and see what progress we can make before we run out of light.”

Nat wrinkles her nose again. “Do you remember that thing in Amlapura, with the—”

“The fucking _boulders,_” Clint says immediately, because he had literally thought he was watching himself die. “And all of the—”

“All of that fucking dust,” Nat answers, and gives a quick all-over shudder like she’s trying to get snow off her shoulders. “But that wasn’t even as bad as Chapecó.”

“I don’t want to _talk_ about Chapecó,” Clint declares, standing suddenly. He’d gotten pretty injured in Santa Catarina, and some of it had been his own fault. “They _looked_ like real dogs. Real mad ones.”

Nat favors him with something really close to a real smile, and they move to start packing their things back up on the sled. They’re both armed to the teeth and deadly enough without any of it, and Clint just feels like he’s needling an older sister he’s known from birth. It’s funny, cause there’s no way his life should have led to something this adventurous and expansive and gorgeously appealing, but he got lucky. Somehow.

———

Clint signals Rosie and Pippy to trail behind them a good fifteen meters, because these archaeological hot spots can have all kinds of surprises in them, and Clint likes dogs. Had a dog, once, before he’d turned in his merc license and joined Nat; his friend has Lucky now, cause Lucky’s a spoiled fuckin’ pizza dog and wouldn’t do so well here in frigid Murmansk Oblast where the delivery time on a hot pepperoni number is approximately forever. Rosie and Pippy both have service vests, and they’re bulletproof cause Nat and Clint aren’t any kind of slacker, but Clint would still rather not see a dog get shot. He’d shoot a human over a dog. There have been days that bothers him, but the more of humanity he meets, the more he really favors the puppies.

Nat takes point, as always. They’re both equally skilled at moving in the shadows, but Nat lets herself be seen occasionally, so that Clint and his long-range deadliness can stay a surprise. It’s a surprising concession from Nat, who prides herself on her ability to move unseen — but Clint knows her better than most, and strategy wins out over ego any day. Natasha’s smart as hell, and she likes _winning_ better than anything, which is something she and Clint have in common.

The trail’s steep, but not impossible for the dogs - something they’d both worried about; Nat for logistics and Clint because he likes dogs - and he only has to boost Pippy once or twice to keep them climbing. The trail’s slowly filling with fog, the way mountain crevices do. Clint looks up - Clint always looks up - and is a little unnerved at the sight of the peaks around them. These mountains are _high_, for a guy from Iowa. It gives Clint the sense that they’re being boxed in, that something’s closing in around them, and he doesn’t like that feeling at all.

They continue for a good couple hours. He and Nat know how to keep a steady pace; it’s saved their lives a number of times, being able to conserve energy as they go. Their suits keep all but the worst breezes out, and the internal heat they work up as they go is enough to keep them safe for now. Every hour Clint drops back to check on the dogs, making sure their paws are still undamaged and offering them water. 

He and Nat exchange a glance. At this point, both of them know the sun should be setting: the skies over the Khibiny Mountains have been glorious, golds and oranges and bright, luscious pinks, but _dark,_ with the speed the sun leaves the horizon these days. And yet the trail they’re climbing, this hollowed upwards path between mountains, is no darker than when they started — perhaps even lighter, some source of a glow catching in the mist and spreading. As usual they don’t even have to say anything. Clint moves himself out from Nat’s shadows to have her back more visibly, because when they don’t know what’s coming they’d rather give up stealth for increased hitting power. Clint realizes, suddenly, that he’s breathing hard: harder than he should be given their pace and his own relative fitness. He glances over, sees that Nat’s breathing hard too, and snaps his fingers to make a familiar gesture at her.

Together, they move into the relative cover of a few scrubby trees and an outcropping of rock. Clint says nothing at first, just waits for the dogs to catch up so he can grab their canteens out of the gently-heated suitcase they use. He takes a few gulps, then passes it to Nat, and she catches on when she tries to drink and finds herself panting slightly after.

“What do you think?” Nat asks him.

Clint’s got — well, the best word he can think of is a sensitivity, cause he sure don’t have any kind of magical abilities, nor does he want any: but he’s often able to pick up on magic a long time before Nat can. Her hypothesis is that he learned it in the circus, surrounded by as many small-time magic practitioners as he was; she thinks it’s self-defense. Clint supposes that’s as good a line as any; he don’t much care where it came from, and he usually wishes he didn’t have it at all, except for the times that it saves him.

“Feels funny,” he murmurs back to her, pitching his words low. It feels like the air is becoming thicker, as well as lighter. “Feels like a storm’s coming, maybe. One of them big Iowa storms that sweeps over the ground and picks up all the dust and dirt from the land? You can feel ‘em coming, like a pressure wave.” He never really knows how to talk about the feeling to Nat, cause he really doesn’t know how to talk about any of his feelings, but she knows him well enough to be able to pick up the baseline of what he’s talking about.

Her lips purse. Despite all the talk that they’re partners, Nat’s the one who makes the decisions, mostly. Clint prefers it that way; he’s happy to work on the details, to follow behind, to guard her back. 

“I hate to say it,” Nat says, “but that might mean we’re on to something.”

“I don’t see any gate,” Clint offers, although his eyesight’s limited by the fog in the air.

Nat shakes her head. “There’s supposed to be a gate,” she says quietly. “But polar night isn’t for three more days. So I don’t know what this might be.”

She’s giving Clint the look that means she wants an answer from him that’s real, so Clint starts thinking. It doesn’t take him long to conclude that whatever’s up here could be part of that gate, or that it could be dangerous. And despite the fact that they appear to be the only four living things within a 500 meter radius, if it’s dangerous, he and Nat are uniquely poised to take it out. And they took on that responsibility the same way they took on their roles as collectors of artifacts, rather than _users_.

He shrugs at her. “I feel like we gotta keep going.”

Her lips purse again and he knows he’s right. “Yeah,” Nat says. “We move.”

She draws both guns from her thigh holsters, automatically checking them, and shifts her belt so that her throwing knives are closer to hand. Clint draws an arrow, leaves it loose in his hand against the bowstring, his other hand just under the grip. Even from his casual stance he can nock, aim, and shoot just as fast as Nat can with her pistols. They’re not going into this dumb.

Nat pulls the night-sight down over her left eye from where it’s been nestled in her hair, and Clint can see her lips moving as she initiates voice command protocol. She nods at him, and moves forward. Clint has her back. He always does.

———

It’s maybe an hour into this tense, slow-moving patrol that Clint starts to hear laughter. 

It’s so low it might just be an artifact of the wind around them — except for the way it drips coldly down his spine like melting snow, the sense that he’s heard something like this before. It’s a cackle, really, the kind of laugh that hints at something darker. It’s — female? Female-leaning, anyway. It isn’t at all familiar except in the mood: like someone’s watching them, and laughing. 

Clint hisses; it’s a sound Nat’s trained to detect over a lot of other noise. The winds have picked up, and there isn’t just fog in the air, there’s snow too; their path has become increasingly inhibited, and the dogs have had a much better time of it than the humans. 

She turns around, the question on her face, and then her eyes grow wide as she spots something over his shoulder: Clint turns, using the momentum to line up his arrow, fast-tracking gaze skimming through the thickness behind him to find — nothing.

He scans the entire path behind him but sees nothing except the snow, and the dogs, and the spindly little trees that have been attempting life on this desolate slope.

Clint whirls back around. Nat’s face is white, her mouth dropped in an expression of surprise, her gaze fixed on what seems like absolutely nothing. 

“Папа?” Natasha says, and then turns and _flees_.

Clint spins around again, wildly, trying to figure out what the fuck has his calm, controlled Nat running off into the dark — and then he’s running off, after her, whistling for the dogs to follow and wondering what the hell is going on.

He hasn’t taken more than maybe ten, twenty pounding paces forward before he hears Barney say, quite clearly, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Clint chokes on something, and sort-of stumbles to his right, breathing heavily, because what the fuck, Barney is _dead._

Except that he’s standing there, same bloody gaping hole in his chest from the last time Clint saw him, and he looks _irritated,_ as if Barney’s fucking ghost has any right to be irritated.

“You idiot,” Barney says at him. Barney isn’t here. Barney shouldn’t be breathing. “You had to come in here, and now she’s gonna die.”

Clint’s stomach sinks cause mama’s dead too, Barney knows that, Barney’s known that for years and he’s — _Nat._

“Natasha!” Clint yells. He tears his eyes away from what has to be a ghost, a hallucination, it isn’t a body, Barney’s fucking buried out in Iowa. “Tasha?”

He reorients himself, runs the same direction Nat had. The trail they’re on is full of mist, with snow in the air, and there’s something choking about it. There’s definitely laughter now. It’s the kind of creepy laughter the old ladies at the circus used to be known for, the ones whose eyes followed your shadow like they were sussing out the secrets of your grave.

He hears the Russian a few breaths before he sees her. 

“Папа? Нет. Дядя! Нет! Не мама! Нежный, Дядя, нежный…”

Nat’s back is up against an outcropping of rock and she’s staring into the mist, both pistols drawn, pointed at something Clint can’t see. 

“Осторожный!”

“Tasha!” Clint yells, because he’s the only one who gets to call her Tasha, and hopefully that’ll get through the - whatever this is - and remind her where they are, that Clint’s here, that they’re okay.

“Clint,” his bastard of a dad says into his ear, “you can’t do anything right, can you?”

“Папа?” Nat yells again, whirling to point both pistols at Clint, but then she blinks. “Клинт?” It’s her Russian version of his name, but he’ll take it, he’ll take whatever he can get.

“Should we turn around?” He yells at her over the wind and the echoes of cackling all around them. His father - his dad’s fucking voice - is part of the wind but Clint’s not even going to acknowledge that asshole; he’s got Tasha, got her hand now, and they can keep their focus on each other this way.

“Нет,” Nat says. “Погнали.”

They push their way through the wind and the snow and the voices: familiar muttering all around them, but Clint just squeezes Nat’s hand and reminds himself that this isn’t real, it isn’t real at all. Nat’s babbling in Russian again, a frantic conversation Clint’s only getting bits and pieces of, but they’re moving forward. His bow’s on his shoulder but he has one of his throwing knives, and Nat’s still holding her pistol in her other hand, and they’ve been through worse, Clint thinks, they’ve certainly been through worse.

Then they press through and the hills around them open up into a clearing, of sorts. In the middle of the clearing is an odd little shack, up on some kind of stilts that look like a bunch of branches held together by chicken wire. The shack’s crooked, listing to the left, and the roof’s in bad shape. Something in it is giving Clint a really bad feeling, a chill running up his spine, and underneath his tac gear he’s breaking out in goosebumps. 

The hut takes a step towards them.

Nat drops his hand, slapping the other pistol up from her thigh holster; Clint’s got an arrow to his bow before he even realizes what’s happening. 

The hut _takes another step._ The stilts are - they’re legs, they’re - they’re fucking bird legs, or something, and the horrible cackling laughter is coming from _inside the hut._ The door swings open and there’s a flash of light and something’s looking out at them, some horrible face, half of it bright enough to pierce through the snow and the other half dead, decaying, and _laughing:_

Nat fires. She gets off a couple shots, then rolls - Clint ducks himself the other way, aims, lets his arrow fly. It passes through the - the face that _isn’t_ a face, it’s just got two gaping holes for eyes, its mouth is opening with jagged teeth and it’s coming for them, extending towards them far faster than even the hut--

It’s Barney’s face. It’s Kate’s face. It’s Phil, it’s _Tasha,_ and Clint can fucking _see_ Nat right there, crouched on one knee, firing at the face, the hut, those chicken legs, but it’s her _dead face_ staring back at him with all of those teeth and Clint can’t make his arms move to fire another arrow. _Where the fuck are the dogs,_ he thinks suddenly, incongruously, as he’s staring down a face that’s half white and half burnt and trying to get to Natasha.

“_Mine,”_ hisses a voice, poison mist through far too many incisors, and Clint wrenches his gaze away from the monstrosity and sees Nat go down to her knees.

“Tasha!” he yells again, and the voice laughs, cackles, the sound bleeding out through his ears and he can’t _move._

“Mine,” it repeats. It’s a flat face on the end of a neck like a vine in a hut on legs and Clint’s vision is starting to grey out; he’s calling for Nat but nothing’s coming out and he’s afraid to open his mouth because something might slip inside--

Then there’s a flash of lightning, the roar of a thunderclap, and that haunted not-face turns around on a neck _far too long to be real,_ hissing something else, and Clint faintly hears a man yelling in a thunderous voice before everything goes black.


	2. The Tesseract Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha wake up in a strange land, surrounded by magic and gods and some sort of mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the PERFECT chapter to introduce Nora's absolutely gorgeous art, here:
> 
> This art and our conversations inspired the mythological path this fic is taking and I couldn't be happier, ILU Nora

Clint wakes up to gentle softness: greys, and whites, soothing stone walls and a thick blanket pulled over him. His sleepy brain isn’t quite sure where he is, but as this happens frequently enough in his life, Clint’s not exceptionally worried. He takes stock as the rest of him pulls itself into consciousness: he’s in a bed, a particularly soft one, meaning it isn’t his or Nat’s. It’s rather quiet, with an underlying ring of something that feels like bells, and the sound of one person’s breathing. That isn’t Nat’s, either, so Clint figures he should open his eyes and figure up what’s going on.

He tries to sit up. That doesn’t go as well as he’d planned.

“Hey,” says a voice, over something Clint realizes is his own whimpering. “Slow down, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

There’s a strong hand under his shoulderblades, helping him sit up, and Clint finally manages to get himself upright.

“What happened?” He asks. “Where’s Nat? I feel like I got hit by an entire _train._”

“Yeah, we couldn’t get to you for three days,” the man continues, adjusting the pillows so that Clint can lean back and rest without wanting to die. “Sorry, for what it’s worth, but it is what it is.”

Clint manages to turn his head and just about drops his jaw into his lap because the guy taking care of him is some sort of breathtaking beautiful he’s never even seen before. Dark hair pulled into a messy bun, hanging down around a face that’s chiseled like a statue, all jawline and cheekbones, and the most goddamn beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. “Hi,” says Clint, and now he feels like he got hit by a train again, but in a much _lower_ place.

His new best friend looks decidedly nonplussed, simply raising an eyebrow at Clint. “Hi,” he says, and it’s dripping with sarcasm. 

“I’m Clint.” Okay, maybe his brain _hasn’t_ entirely come back online. He should probably be concerned about where he is and what’s going on, not failing to flirt.

“Bucky,” says the guy. “Probably should have opened with that. You’re safe, here,” he adds, something funny in his voice. “For some definition of safe, anyway.”

“What’s here?” Clint asks, because his brain would rather note that Bucky is built like a goddamn _tank,_ broad chest and those thighs, okay, this isn’t helping at all. “Where’s Nat? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Bucky sits back down in this chair that looks a little too much like a throne for Clint’s tastes, and it _suits_ him — up until the point where he slouches down in it, relaxing a bit, making pleasantly contrasting lines with his body. “She woke up yesterday, I think.”

“Woke up,” Clint repeats, racking his brain — and then he remembers the snow, and the hut, those eerie bone-stick-feet walking towards them, and that _face:_ half dead and half blazing and all _empty_. “What the fuck _was_ that?”

“We, uh,” Bucky says, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “We aren’t sure yet.”

“Wait,” says Clint, because now that he’s dropkicked his brain into action he’s remembering more and more; “is this the, uh, the wherever behind the gate? Magical Tesseract land?”

Bucky’s mouth wrinkles into something that’s not quite a smile. “More or less,” he says, and then stands up. “I’d better get Thor.”

“_Thor,_” Clint repeats, but Bucky’s already gone.

———

An hour or so later, Clint’s been fed, led to the most charming little bath pool he’s ever seen, and given fresh clothing (some weird trousers and a tunic; he wants his tac gear back). He’s also got Nat, now, who apparently has a room connected to his in wherever the hell they’re staying at the moment, and who looks fine, if a little exhausted. Clint himself is feeling much better (it might have been the wine), and he’s sitting on top of the bed with Nat next to him because one of his - attendants? - had said the Prince was on his way.

He’d asked Nat what she knew, but she’d shaken her head in the way she did when she didn’t _quite_ want to talk about anything yet, so Clint had changed the subject. He’s good at waiting for Nat to figure things out, and until then he’s good at being observant too.

The door opens, and Bucky walks in; he’s followed by this _towering_ sort of a man that Clint thinks instantly is either (a) the Prince of this place or (b) the most amazing costume he’s ever seen in his life. The guy is huge, significantly taller than Bucky and broader at the shoulders, wearing some kind of leather-armor combination and an honest actual _cape_. His hair’s dark blond, long, and decorated with a series of twists and braids that make him look regal. Behind him is maybe the _second_ biggest man Clint’s ever seen, and he takes back the thought that Bucky’s build like a tank because this man, here, short hair and a beard, looks like an _actual_ _tank._

Then Clint sees that the guy at the end has Pippy and Rosie on leads, and he leaps off the bed - stumbling and groaning in pain as he does so - and crashes over to collapse before them, trying to hug them both.

“You weren’t that happy to see _me,_” Nat says from the bed.

“Well, I knew _you’d _be okay,” Clint shoots back, one hand in Pippy’s scruff as he scratches behind Rosie’s ears. “Wasn’t so sure about them.”

“Greetings,” booms the largest man, who’s grinning down at Clint — who realizes his entire lack of dignity here and sort-of regrets being sprawled across the floor covered in dogs. (Only sort-of.)

“Hi,” he says, absolutely resigned to this first impression.

“Welcome to Asgard.” The booming continues. “I am Thor, son of Odin, Lord and Prince of Asgard, and you are safe behind our walls.”

Clint glances over at Nat; she gives nothing away, just a brief widening of the eyes that Clint knows well. It’s time to play stupid. “Asgard,” he says. “Like, for real. Real Asgard?”

Before Thor can answer, Nat makes a gesture and says, “Thank you for the rescue. I’m Natasha, and this is Clint. Can you tell us what happened?”

“These are my brethren-in-arms, Steven and Bucky.” Thor gestures between the two men, and Clint takes a moment to wonder why a guy named Steven hangs out with a guy called Bucky. Steven is broad of chest, good-looking in a way that makes Clint move on to wondering whether this Asgard is, like, home to the most attractive men in the universe, and whether he can get in on that action while they’re here.

“You were attacked,” Steven says, moving to shake Clint’s hand (while he’s on the ground) and then Nat’s. “Outside the gate. We came as soon as we could, and brought you inside. By the time we found you, there was no sign of what it was, except for…” He purses his lips, seeming apologetic. “Except for the two of you.”

“Magical damage quite severe,” Thor intones, looking between the two of them. Clint stands up and moves back to sit on the bed next to Nat. Luckily, the dogs follow him, so he can keep petting them _and_ look slightly dignified at the same time.

“I would know what befell you,” Thor continues. He now looks grave, and serious. “If there is a threat to my kingdom beyond the gate, our time to vanquish it is limited.”

“So we are behind the gate?” Nat asks, pointedly, and Thor gives her the benevolent smile of someone who hasn’t quite figured out who Nat is, or how smart she happens to be.

“Yes,” he says gently, “you’re safe here behind the gates of Asgard. Can you tell us more about what attacked you?”

“Please allow me to be blunt first,” Nat says, and Clint’s quick eyes catch surprise on Thor’s face; Steven narrows his eyes, and Bucky’s gaze is flicking between Clint and Nat, though nothing’s written in it.

“We’re here for an important artifact,” Nat says, and before Thor can finish reaching for his sword she adds: “It’s in great danger.”

Thor relaxes, somewhat. “The Tree?”

“How do you know about the Tesseract?” Steven asks, fairly pointedly, looking quite suspicious of Nat. 

Interesting, Clint thinks. He’s staying quiet, petting dogs, because one of his greatest skills is _being underestimated. _Also he loves dogs. But mostly he wants to put across the image of just being a merc Nat’s hired. Anyway, here’s another clear link between the tree of immortality and the Tesseract: his suspicions might be accurate. The charms that led them here were focused on the apples. Why is Steven mentioning the Tesseract at all?

Nat shrugs, giving away absolutely nothing with her body language. “I’m in the business of protecting special artifacts.” She pronounces every word carefully, watching as they register to Steve. “It came to our attention that someone ...undesirable is looking for the tree of immortality, and the Tesseract. We came to find them first, to keep it out of their hands.”

Clint continues to watch: that’s his job. Thor seems surprised and a bit confused. Steven’s suspicion is written across his face, and he leans in to murmur something to Bucky that puts a wrinkle across the other man’s brow. 

“The Tesseract Tree is well guarded here,” Thor tells them, and it would be condescending except that Thor seems to _genuine_ with it. Clint’s watching for tells, and Thor really just seems like he’s trying to be friendly. “There has been no threat to it for years.” 

“Seventy-some years ago, Captain America and the Howling Commandos vanished bringing the Tesseract to safety. How is it related to the tree?” Nat’s voice remains soft, casual, a little curious, giving away absolutely nothing. Clint notes Bucky watching her; he, at least, is aware that with Nat one only sees what she wants you to see.

Steven’s face darkens, and Thor glances at him. There’s some unspoken conversation there, an eyebrow raise and a small wince, the way men who have fought together for years can speak with no words. 

“I will show you later,” Thor says. “I must get permission from the All-Seeing. For now, let us focus on what befell you outside our gate.”

At this Nat glances at Clint, who gives her the best shrug he can only using his eyes.

“We were following a trail to the gate,” Nat says, slowly, clouding all of her information in words specifically chosen to be general. “There was mist, and the feel of magic. There were… visions.” She swallows, and Clint remembers her yelling about her father, her uncle, her mother. “We entered a clearing and were attacked by some sort of being. We were frozen and unable to attack.”

“When we found you - the day the gate opened - there were layers of magical damage all over your bodies, but no signs of any sort of enemy.” Steven frowns. “What were the visions?”

Clint remembers Barney’s voice, the blood, his dad yelling in his ear. “Things from the past,” he says, the first thing he’s said in a while. “Probably memories.” That isn’t true at all, but it’s better than the thought that this creature pulled their fears out of their heads.

“This creature,” Thor says. “How did it look?”

Nat glances at Clint, so he continues. “It started out like a hut, on these like… legs. Stilts. I don’t know. First it just looked like a building, but then it started walking towards us.”

Bucky makes the tiniest noise behind Steven and Clint’s eyes flick to him. He’s actually a bit relieved to see some amusement, because remembering the thing is terrifying but the visual is probably funny to someone who wasn’t there. He’d much rather be amused than absolutely scared off his nuts again. 

“Did you see anything else?” Thor’s frowning now. 

A quick glance shows Nat still silent. She’s probably identified whatever it was, then, something she’s heard of already during her studies, which means she’s fishing for information and using Clint to do so.

“I was frozen,” Clint continues, carefully. He isn’t going to mention his fucking dad. “I think Nat was too, cause she wasn’t moving. The door opened and out came this…”

He actually has to pause to shudder, unfeigned, unforced. “It had no face, except that it did have a face, and it was like, half alive and half dead? And it came at us on this really long neck like it was the end of a snake, or something.” He can feel Nat wrinkling her nose in laughter at him and it makes him feel loads better. “And it was yelling MINE! at us, but all I was doing was trying to get to Nat. And wondering about the dogs,” he adds at the end, and sees Bucky’s nose wrinkle at that, although it’s probably more in disgust.

Thor glances at Steven, and then back at Bucky, who shakes his head.

“I must talk to the All-Seeing and the Council,” Thor announces. “I do not like having a foe at our feet. Steven and Bucky will remain with you and can show you where to find food, drink, and entertainment.” He pauses. “Your healing is not yet complete, and the magic of Asgard could harm you outside these walls. Please be content to remain here while we search for your attacker.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says, “and we would appreciate a chance to see the - the Tesseract Tree? It would help us be less worried to know it was protected.”

“Yes,” Thor says absently, already leaving. “Yes.”

———

Clint’s no idiot. This is called being kept prisoner, even in the finest rooms with the best food he’s ever seen; they’re being kept under guard.

The guard, however, turn out to be fairly charming. Steven - “Call me Steve, please” - and Bucky are obvious long friends, a team as much as Nat and Clint have become, and have their own language and set of jokes that forms a brotherly type of camaraderie. They lead Nat and Clint to a mess hall and drop down at a table in a tavern-like setting with the ease of people who have done this their entire lives. Steve waves an arm and someone responds with a cheerful yell.

“So,” Steve says, friendly enough, “you hunt down artifacts in the real — in Midgard?”

“Uh, if that means Earth, then yeah,” Clint says with a grin. 

“It sounds fascinating,” Steve replies. “What kind of stuff do you find out there?”

Nat shrugs. Another large man - what is with the _size_ of the people around here, Clint thinks - approaches the table bearing four large — tankards? Full of what looks like beer. Okay, Clint likes being a prisoner a lot more now. Things are improving.

“Careful,” Bucky says, as Clint takes an enthusiastic sip. “It’s probably a bit stronger than you’re used to.”

Clint just raises an eyebrow. If the beautiful man across from him wants to play a drinking game, he’s already in.

“We gather the kinds of things you seem to have for granted,” Nat says, not meanly. “The apples of immortality. The Tesseract. Whatever else you have around here.”

It’s a leading statement, but Steve mutters, “there’s nothing to take for granted about the Tesseract.”

Bucky glances over, and then shrugs. “Ain’t what they mean, Stevie.”

“We’ve never seen anywhere anything like this,” Clint says, which is _kind of_ a lie seeing as they’d crossed over into Avalon once or twice, as well as an unnamed Mayan temple that was definitely not reality, and a couple other things here and there. But it’s also partly true; he’s never seen anything like Asgard.

“Well, tell us about—” Steve cuts himself off. “Tell us about your world, then, your Earth. What, uh, how’s it going there?”

Clint grins. “Same old. Disaster people trying to ruin other disaster people, and the few good things suffering because of the disaster lifestyle.”

Nat mutters something in Russian, and then adds, “Clint’s understanding of the world comes from his _own_ disaster lifestyle. His opinions are probably a little bit biased.”

“Hey!” He grins at Nat. “At least I _own it._”

“Technology,” Bucky asks, and it’s a little bit - longing? Curious, yes, but something else a bit odd in it, as if he’s nostalgic or something. “You have technology, right, instead of—” He waves his hand around a bit. “Magic.”

“Can you do magic?” Clint asks, eagerly, because if the most beautiful man in the world can _also _do things like Nat does, Clint has a new goal, and that goal is to marry Bucky immediately. 

Bucky shrugs his right shoulder, awkwardly. “Nah, not me. I can use what Asgard offers, but got none of my own.”

Clint’s fantasy of magically powered sex games is ruined, but that’s okay. He can’t stop looking at Bucky. His face is shuttered and yet it’s leaking some complete set of emotions occasionally and Clint’s sharp eyes are catching every one. He doesn’t know what they _mean_ yet, but he’s building a catalog all the same. 

In fact — Clint leans back, while Nat starts explaining about satellites and mobile phones and technology access in the cloud, and looks around. The other Asgardians are wearing either regal robes - ladies and men, as far as Clint can tell, in a variety of lengths and levels of fancy - or what looks like _casual armor,_ leather or chain or metal plates. Their hair is long and ornate; their manner is overly jovial, and their faces are all relaxed.

In contrast, Steve and Bucky are wearing what could be army gear if the army was from, like, the 1900s. There’s nothing ostentatious about their clothing; it’s simple, efficient, almost plain as compared to the rest of the folks in the room. And there are lines of tension on their faces that wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who hadn’t been trained by Nat to see them; a wariness that Clint doesn’t see on anyone else here in this tavern. 

Bucky’s been watching Clint this entire time, Clint realizes when he glances back. That wariness is in his eyes, and Clint just gives Bucky his biggest and most charming grin, along with a wink. He’s surprised when Bucky flushes slightly and looks away, back towards Steve.

Interesting, Clint thinks, as he turns back to help Nat explain smartphones. Something here is definitely not what it seems.

———

Nat and Clint are brought back to their rooms then, to “rest up”, which is expected to help their wounded magical auras heal. Clint doesn’t feel any worse than he usually does - he spends a lot of his life in the stage after a good old beating - and Nat says she hasn’t noticed anything either. However, neither one of them argue, and once the door shuts behind Bucky, Clint’s in her room perched at the foot of her bed while Nat paces.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “They’re more concerned about what attacked us than any kind of threat to the — and the Tesseract and the tree are the same thing?”

“That’s what I got,” Clint says, rubbing his face. “Do you think Hydra knows? Or did they just start looking for both at the same time and it’s a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.” Nat shakes her head. She really doesn’t. “Have you checked your feeds lately? They started talking about them at the same time, sure, but are they connected in any of the conversations, or is it just the timing?”

Clint heads back to his room to dig out his tablet, Nat following on his heels. As he loads it up, he asks, “So what do you know about the thing that attacked us? I know you’ve figured something out.”

Nat wrinkles her nose at him. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Clint says, grinning back at her. “You have tells.”

“I do _not_ have tells,” Nat announces, “unless they’re deliberate.”

“You have tells to me,” Clint points out. He’s trying to get the tablet to find their satellite network. Will it even work in Asgard? Technically this place - this valley - is still on Earth, right? They’re technically still in buttfuckingly cold Russia, even though it’s warm enough here for Clint and Nat to wander around in nothing but trousers and tunics?

“They’re deliberate,” Nat says then, and allows herself a little bit of a smile in Clint’s direction.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Clint says, and then adds, “Hey, look, it connected. Just took a while. Does Asgard have satellites?”

“It’s the mythology of the Baba Yaga,” Nat says instead. “Баба Яга is a folklore character based in Russian history. She lives in a hut with chicken legs, and she isn’t necessarily good or evil, just mysterious. Talks in riddles. She’s a manifestation of the Crone, old lady, grandmother, the path to death.”

“Baba Yaga,” Clint repeats. Even he’s heard some of the stories, although he’d forgotten them in the terror of the moment. “So is this a magical manifestation of mean ol’ Gramma, or is it someone pretending to be her?”

“I don’t _know,_” Nat says, frustrated, and Clint holds out a hand to pull her down on the bed with him. “That face didn’t look like an old crone at all, did it?”

Clint thinks back. “What did you see? To me it was like, half alive and half dead, or half black and half white? It was also grotesque to the max and literally horrifying, so I didn’t look that long.”

“Similar,” Nat murmurs. Clint’s rubbing her back now; he’s a big fan of personal comfort, and while Nat usually isn’t, it helps ground her when things like this happen.

“Hey,” he says. “We’re here. Nothing makes sense, there’s no sign of Hydra, and we’re surrounded by the most attractive men I’ve ever met—” Nat snorts, and leans into him. “But we’re here, we’re inside, and we’ll figure out what to do as we go along. Okay?”

“Хорошо,” says Nat, and she lets her head fall to Clint’s shoulder.

———

Later that day, Thor leads them out of the palace, and down a long winding path into gorgeous hanging gardens.

The valley is even warmer than the rooms they’re in; he’s just in his tac gear, as is Nat, and she has her sleeves rolled up and pinned, because she runs hot. Clint remembers the snow and the mist they fought through to get here and wonders how it’s so blessed warm here. Magic? 

“This is the heart of the valley,” Thor says. “This is the heart of Asgard.” He leads them through strange growths: roots that seem to knit together, flowers that grow in chains, vines that hiss as they walk past. They aren’t anything Clint recognizes, and he’s trying to make mental notes such that he can try to sketch them out later.

“Where are we going?” Nat asks, and Thor just smiles at her, and keeps walking. Clint follows, taking in the landscape, letting his eyes be less concerned with the wonders - and they’re wonders - and more concerned with the details, the corners, the places things and people could be hiding.

“There,” Thor says, pointing, and Clint glances up to follow the gesture. 

There, rising from a gentle hill at the end of the garden, is a tree. Not just any tree: a Tree. There’s a crisp blue light emanating from its roots, which weave together above-ground for a meter or so before twining together to form an elegant slender trunk, arcing upwards before separating again into a filigree of branches too symmetrical to be anything but designed, carefully, dwindling into tendrils reaching for the sky. Clint’s eyes, as they get used to the light, can pick out individual fruits here and there, carefully pinned onto the weaving vines.

“The Tree,” Thor says, and there’s a reverence in his voice Clint hasn’t heard directed at anything else yet.

“The Tesseract?” Nat asks, and Thor nods. 

“The Tesseract was given to my people to protect and guard.” Thor sighs, his face softening. “Mine mother planted it in the ground, and it bore us a tree, like that of Yggdrasil, save with a different purpose.”

“The apples of immortality,” Clint offers.

“Yes, and no,” Thor replies, laughing. “The apples grant great mortal strength, yes, but what is immortality to one who lives in Asgard?”

“How is that so?” Nat asks. “If the Tesseract itself vanished seventy-some years ago with Captain America?”

“Ah,” Thor says, and pauses. He searches first Nat’s face, then Clint’s, with a solemn gaze that seems to strike all the way to the back of Clint’s skull. This man, this Prince: he has magic, even if the others do not.

“What vanished those years past was not the Tesseract,” Thor replies. There’s a weight to his words that suggests there’s more to the story, but that he won’t be telling it any time soon. “It was built by Hydra with a small piece of the Tesseract and was meant to find it. It nearly led them here.” He takes a rough breath, exhales slowly. “We have since then reunited that fragment with the rest of the Tree. There is no need for worry.”

“How is it protected?” Nat’s frowning. “The gate — the one we entered. That creature. It isn’t your guardian?”

“Nay,” Thor says. “Is it not your Hydra, trying to breach the gate?”

Clint frowns; that’s a possibility he hadn’t thought of. Nat’s face tells him that she already has. “It’s unlikely,” Nat says. “Hydra tends towards squadrons of soldiers, not necessarily magical beings.” She flicks a glance to Clint, who knows that Hydra certainly does dabble in magical beings, but stays quiet.

Thor’s silent for a long moment. “Asgard is its own protection,” he says finally. “Those of us of Asgard are stronger here, as is Asgard’s own magic. Any mortal army storming these gates would not last long, I know that well enough.”

Clint files that fact away in the back of his head. For a while, they just stare at the Tesseract Tree. It’s truly beautiful, with its otherworldly glow, and the way the branches and leaves and vines and fruits all tangle. He can feel it, his magical sensitivity picking up something incredibly soothing, like a song almost: soft verses brushing against his skin, and a sound like bells. It’s inviting, as if the Tree is offering him an apple, asking him to step closer and sit beneath its branches. The magic it emits is soft.

Clint glances over at Nat, and then up at Thor, who’s staring at the Tree with a wrinkle in his brow and a very slight frown on his face. There are obviously parts of this story they haven’t been told.


	3. The Warrior's Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat and Clint tentatively prod Asgard. Asgard pushes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The voters asked for this, and the voters got it!

So Bucky’s been appointed Clint’s designated room service and guard. That’s fine with Clint on an aesthetic level, really, but he’s getting a little tired of having all of his time taken up by a grumpy dark-haired shadow. He and Nat have tried to get out of their rooms on their own, just for a friendly wander - they haven’t started scheming yet - but Steve’s on Nat as hard as Bucky’s on Clint, and they aren’t stupid, nor are they inexperienced at this kind of thing.

Clint decides that if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, except in a way that involves him making friends with Bucky, using his charming personality to win the Asgardian over.

And if he flirts a little, well, so what? Bucky’s _hot._ Clint’s finding it’s difficult to keep his eyes off of Bucky’s arms, or his fucking cheekbones, which Clint wants to get his mouth on. He’s always up for a no-strings-attached roll in the hay, so if that’s where this goes, it’s just an added benefit. Get information, get fucked -- that’s Clint’s idea of an absolute win-win.

“So what do you and Steve do here?” Clint asks the next morning, when Bucky comes in with the Asgardian - maid? Servant? Employee? - who has been bringing Clint clean bath towels and clothing. They’ve got their tac gear back, and the supplies they had on the sled with the dogs, but their gear needs some repairs.

“We’re part of Thor’s Royal Guard,” Bucky says. He seems amiable enough, and Clint wonders how far he can press. “We train, we patrol, and we investigate when needed.” He glances at Clint, who’s drying his hair and trying not to stare at Bucky’s jawline. “It’s an important role, here.”

“Royal Guard,” Clint repeats, trying it out. “Is that like… Secret Service? The Army?”

“Sort of,” Bucky agrees, and then seems to catch himself on something. “I mean, I think so. We don’t necessarily guard Thor - he doesn’t need it - but we’ll guard other members of the royal family as it’s needed. Otherwise, it’s just sort of like a police - I mean, I think it’s like the police, or the army, kind of combined.”

Clint isn’t quite as good at leading questions as Nat is, but he’s got some practice. “Do you know enough to explain why Thor isn’t worried about the, uh, Tesseract Tree? If you’re like a guard around here?”

Bucky shrugs, but he takes a moment to consider his answer. “Well, the Earth doesn’t have a lot of magic, right? There’s a lot of magic here. It’s its own protection, honestly.”

“Huh.” Clint frowns. “I don’t really know much about magic, even after working with Nat for so long. I just know Nat’s still worried about Hydra getting at the tree.” It’s true; Bucky doesn’t really need to know how sensitive he is to it, at this moment.

“Hydra,” Bucky says, and it sounds like a familiar word in his mouth. “Tell me about Hydra?”

Clint shrugs, because he doesn’t mind spilling about Hydra. “Yeah, so, they’re like… Nazis, but worse? Do you know what Nazis are?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and then he adds on: “We hear about things, here. That one was kinda big.”

“Right.” Clint files that one away with the other notes in his head. “So Hydra’s headed by a bunch of assholes who believe in a lot of mythological jumbo-jumbo about there being a master race destined to rule and inferior races who deserve to die. Messy shit. Right now, most of their organization is dedicated to causing chaos in the world that lets well-placed Hydra agents gain power. I’m fairly sure their top officials want to take over the world and remake it in their image, you know, as you do.”

“As you do,” Bucky repeats, amused. He’s leaning up against the wall, looking comfortable; Clint’s sat on his bed, and has been moving slowly on his shoelaces during the conversation. “And they’re after the Tesseract because?”

“We aren’t entirely sure of the reason,” Clint tells him, with a lopsided grin. “Communications monitoring picked up talk about the Tesseract and a special tree, starting about the same time together. But they were putting out information feelers - feelers, get it, cause it’s Hydra? - an’ didn’t share anything about why they were looking.” He pauses, and then takes a gamble. “Nat found the information on the tree on her own, but we didn’t know it was related to the Tesseract until we got here.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky drawls, all comfortable and joking — and then he freezes, and something in the air shifts. “The, uh, your Earth has its own set of rumors about the Tesseract, right?”

“What, Captain America?” Clint scoffs. “Him and his team giving their lives to take the Tesseract out of this world? I dunno, man.” He gives Bucky his best smirk. “As someone who deals in information, I feel like there’s something more there that we mere human folk haven’t been told.”

There is a flash of something across Bucky’s face; he looks distinctly uncomfortable, for the first time this morning. “Let’s head down to breakfast,” he suggests. “And I really can’t tell you much about Captain America, honestly.”

_That,_ thinks Clint Barton, _is the first lie he’s told today._

———

He follows Bucky into what he thinks of as the mess hall and discovers that Nat has made a friend. It isn’t Steve, although he’s sitting at the table and watching them amiably; it’s a tall woman, wearing armor, her face marked in white and ink, and Nat’s actually being friendly in her general direction, which is surprising. 

“Clint!” Nat calls, and Bucky leads him over to their table. “I know you’ve met Steve, but this is Brunnhilde — the Valkyrie.”

“Not _the_ Valkyrie,” says the woman, who stands to shake Clint’s hand. She’s dark-haired and darker-skinned, and holds herself with the confidence of a warrior. “One of many.”

“She answers to Valkyrie,” Steve points out, mildly, and Bucky laughs as he sits down. 

“A few of us do,” Brunnhilde says, and sits back down next to Natasha. Clint notes that she has a pile of eggs on her plate that rivals Steve’s. “It’s an honor.” 

“We’ve been talking about the Tesseract Tree,” Nat says with satisfaction, and Clint catches the smile on her face. “The Valkyrie are dedicated to protecting Asgard against external threats. It’s fascinating.”

“Is that like the Royal Guard?” Clint asks Bucky as a - waiter, servant? Clint really needs to learn the names for these things already - brings over a plate with eggs, biscuits, and what might be bacon if Asgardian bacon is served as burnt nearly to a crisp. Bucky dives in, and Nat’s eaten her share, so Clint does as well. 

He doesn’t miss the look Steve tosses at Bucky; Bucky shrugs, and says, “They’re two different armed companies, but they operate along the same lines.”

“Asgard has a couple different regiments,” Nat tells Clint. She’s obviously sharing her learnings with him under the guise of being social. “The Valkyrie guard the borders, and the Inner Sanctum are the ones who guard the magic here.”

“So then the Royal Guard take care of — internal stuff? Disagreements?” Clint glances over at Bucky just in time to catch Steve giving Bucky that _look_ again. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a shrug, “mostly.” It isn’t really an answer, but he meets Clint’s eyes easily. Clint glances over at Steve, who’s eyeing Bucky carefully. It’s so _weird._

“So who does the scouting?” Nat asks, making it easily fit into the conversation. “I feel like there should be someone who’s watching out in case Hydra comes.”

“Or if that creature comes back,” Clint adds, thinking about the Baba Yaga manifestation that had attacked them. A strange thought occurs to him: Had it wanted to keep them away, or drag them in? It had been yelling _Mine_ at them, but then it had abandoned them to be found by Thor and his company; what in the world had it actually wanted?

An awkward silence has settled over the table, and Brunnhilde and Steve are staring at each other while trying to not look like they’re staring at each other. Bucky drops his gaze to his plate and pushes his eggs around. 

“We don’t often venture beyond the gate,” Steve says. It sounds like a carefully composed phrase. It’s very obvious there’s some kind of elephant in the room. “We used to patrol, but…”

“We had bad luck,” Brunnhilde adds. There’s something determined on her face as she says, in a tone that’s almost arguing for someone to contradict her, “One of our own betrayed us, and was cast out.”

“And another followed,” Bucky interjects quickly, like he wants to get it out before someone objects.

Steve’s mouth is set in a hard line. He obviously doesn’t agree with sharing this open — although it doesn’t really tell them shit, Clint thinks. It doesn’t have anything to do with the Tesseract or the apples, and it won’t help them find Hydra _or_ defeat the Baba Yaga creature, so who cares? Asgard seems full of secrets.

“I’m sorry,” Nat offers eventually, when there’s mostly silence. 

“Tell us a tale of your Earth!” Brunnhilde exclaims into the silence. She sounds a little bit like Thor. It might be contrived, but her face is open, and it shows true curiosity alongside an underlying sly twist to her mouth that reminds Clint of Nat. 

He starts talking about dogs because it’s easy: asking whether Asgard has dogs, asks about Pippy and Rosie; it’s his turn to make conversation, and Nat’s turn to watch.

———

Clint’s wandering the small expanse of rooms they’re allowed to roam unguarded when he comes on a new passageway — new as in he hasn’t explored it yet. He’s - it isn’t bored, really; it’s more a low simmering uneasy feeling as everything they’re learning percolates in his head - looking for a distraction. This is an excellent one.

He follows the long, unremarkable hallway, opening up the side doors as he finds them. One’s a bath, even fancier than the one he has; it looks like a steaming pool on one side, a normal temperature bath in the middle, and the gentle rain of cold water into a chilly pool against the other wall. Interesting. The next door leads into a sauna, fragrant wood stacked with symbols and runes. Clint continues to walk, discovering next a chamber with what appear to be various barrels of water, labeled in a language he can’t read; the final door opens up into a vast arena of some kind. Clint stops, one step in, to look around.

It’s … literally some kind of arena; there are areas blocked off with wood and stone that remind Clint of the spaces he’s seen set aside for boxing and cage fighting (although he doesn’t want to think about _why_ he recognizes them), with bench seating for observers. He takes a few steps forward to find it’s much better lit than he’d originally thought. There are mats spread on the ground with equipment on them; it isn’t familiar at first glance, but his eyes eventually pick out weighted balls, steps, blocks, some illuminated with glowing runes he can’t read. There’s a repetitive sound coming from one side, and Clint slowly makes his way towards it.

He passes by a set of mounted bars that wouldn’t be out of place at the Olympics, and then underneath some collection of swinging trapezes that give him the weirdest anti-nostalgic homesickness pang, and then there’s an area blocked off with whatever those decorative standing screens are called and Clint neatly tucks himself around the edge.

And there’s Bucky, shirtless, on a bench, working with what absolutely looks like a set of free weights nicked from the local Gold’s Gym, with what’s absolutely a normal barbell stand behind him. None of the equipment matters because Clint’s eyes immediately stick somewhere around Bucky’s abs and slowly trace those lines upwards to a surprisingly thick chest and — and the left arm, all silver metal and pale blue glow, exactly mirroring the right as Bucky works though something that might be chest presses. 

“Holy shit,” Clint says, and Bucky fucking _drops_ the free weights. “Shit!” Clint yells, spamming forward to help in an instinctive movement he immediately aborts when he sees the look on Bucky’s face, a strange combination of shock and shame and resignation and something else Clint can’t read because he’s too busy staring at Bucky’s goddamned _metal arm._ Is this real? It’s absolutely _incredible,_ workmanship Clint’s never seen before, the way it’s moving and shifting.

“Are you okay?” Clint asks, and then in the same breath before his brain can intervene, “Is that a metal arm?”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing back here?” Bucky snaps back. He sits up; Clint’s eyes watch the ripple of his abs, his mouth suddenly dry. Bucky turns as if to hide the join at his shoulder, which looks scarred, dull red traces speaking of some kind of trauma. 

“There was a door and a hallway, I followed it,” Clint says, tossing the words away as he continues to take it in. “Is that your arm? Really? Oh my god.”

Bucky’s other hand comes up to grip at his shoulder. His face is dark, shuttered. “You have a fuckin’ problem?”

“It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” Clint blurts out, and he means it in this moment; it’s an amazing construction, automatically recalibration in shifting plates as Bucky makes a fist and releases it. 

“It’s none of your fuckin’ — huh?” Bucky glances up, brows drawn down, and Clint grins at him. 

“I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to interrupt your _personal time_ back here, but that arm is seriously _amazing_.” Clint wants to ask to see it, wants to touch it, but the look on Bucky’s face is somewhat shy and he’s still cradling it as if he wants to hide it from Clint’s view. Clint’s smart enough to know that’s a signal to back off. He even raises his hands in the most non-threatening way he can think of. 

Bucky’s staring at him. Clint wonders whether anyone has ever told him his arm is cool before. _Cool._ He wants to punch himself. That’s just about the most _uncool_ word he could have chosen. He’s such an idiot. But Bucky’s still staring at him and Clint takes a chance to stare back: Bucky’s expression is softening, slowly, and there’s something like interest glinting in his eyes — curiosity, at least.

“It’s my arm,” says Bucky slowly, which surprises Clint deeply. “I mean, it is now. I had, um — something happened. Lost my arm. They made me this one.”

And even more surprisingly, Bucky uncoils, turning so that his left arm is facing Clint. Clint still isn’t going to reach out and touch it, he knows better, but he shifts his gaze down to it. It’s metal platework, grafted together to make a fully moving arm; each segment has a rune of some sort in the middle, and these glow with a faint blue light as Bucky makes a fist and then releases it. The plates shift against each other and there’s a sound like a sigh as Bucky moves the arm around. Clint’s seen a lot of interesting magical technology hanging around with Nat, but this is — this is incredible.

“It’s incredible,” he says out loud. “I mean, uh, sorry about your real arm, man, that sucks, and I’m sure you miss it, but this is…” Clint pauses, and then decides to be honest. “It’s beautiful, man.”

There’s a faint blush on Bucky’s cheeks; it’s a good look on him. “Don’t think anyone’s ever called it that before.”

Clint decides to lighten things up. He gives Bucky what he hopes is a sultry wink and says, deliberately looking him up and down, “Well, how could it be anything else?”

Bucky blushes further and laughs, running a hand through his hair. The moment’s broken into something much less tense, and Clint grins. “Ain’t the only beautiful set of arms in here, doll,” Bucky drawls, and Clint laughs himself to cover his initial embarrassment. 

Of course he stretches, flexing as well as he can. Clint knows what his own biceps look like. He watches Bucky’s eyes linger on his shoulders. “So what is this,” Clint asks, “the Earth style workout area? I mean, it looks like you nicked all this stuff from a Planet Fitness.”

This, surprisingly, makes Bucky’s face squeeze up, a line of tension between his eyes. “I like it,” he says defensively, making a motion like he’s going to cross his arms before thinking better of it and simply fisting his hands at his sides before relaxing.

Maybe Clint’s emboldened by their earlier exchange, or maybe he’s just reckless, but he finally has to say something. “Look,” he murmurs, moving closer to Bucky so that he can look directly in those pale eyes, all blue-grey and flecked, lined with surprisingly long dark lashes. 

“I know there’s something you aren’t telling us,” Clint continues, his voice low. “I don’t expect you to trust me right away, but I promise you, we aren’t here to do anything but help keep Hydra’s hands off of whatever fancy thing they’re after.”

Bucky steps even closer; they’re a handful of breaths apart. He’s looking up at Clint, and his eyes are wide with arousal, and Clint thinks about kissing him for a brief second — okay, more than a second, his eyes dropping down to Bucky’s lips. 

“Well,” Bucky drawls, and his own eyes are ranging over Clint’s entire face like he sees something he likes. “I know you ain’t telling us the whole truth either, are ya?” His accent is familiar, somehow, but Clint can’t place it because he’s trying not to look at Bucky’s mouth.

To that, he just shrugs. Nat’s secrets are his secrets, but they aren’t his to give away. “Maybe we’ll have to do something about that,” he says, and it doesn’t really mean much, but he’s glad they’re at least putting it on the table.

“Maybe.” Bucky cocks his head. The smirk is smug, but the hungry look is still in his eyes. “Not right now, though. I wasn’t done.”

“Suit yourself,” Clint says, grinning. “I’m going to go try out that nice room with all the baths.”

As he walks away, he can feel Bucky watching him leave.

———

To his surprise, when Clint comes back to the rooms he and Nat share, there’s no sign of either Bucky or Steve. Have they finally been deemed safe enough to not need babysitters? It seems strange. He changes back into his tac gear, which has been cleaned and repaired enough that he feels much more comfortable in it than in the Asgardian garb they’ve been lent. 

Clint then flops down on the bed, on his stomach with limbs sprawled. He should check his systems, look at his Hydra feeds, but he just kind of… doesn’t want to. None of this is what he was expecting. He’d thought the Tree, or the Tesseract, or whatever — he’d thought it would be just like, alone, existing beyond the gate that only opened for forty days, and that he and Nat could do - whatever - and take care of it. Somehow. But there was that Baba Yaga incarnation, and an entire realm of people with magical powers and strange tastes that weren’t telling them anything, and now he doesn’t know what to do. Clint hates that. 

It gets bad in his head when he doesn’t know what to do. It’s gotten better since he’s been working with Nat, but there’s still that voice echoing in his head that he’s worthless, he’s stupid, he’s useless. He tries to silence it by keeping himself entertained, even with stuff that’s not that serious, but it doesn’t always work.

He hears the door open, and he can tell it’s Nat by the breathing. Nat and someone he doesn’t really know, but he’s heard the voice before. It isn’t Bucky, and it isn’t Steve. Interesting. A new babysitter.

“I’m in here,” Clint yells, because he doesn’t feel like moving at all. 

Nat walks in, followed by the Valkyrie. “We were just looking for you,” says Nat with a sense of satisfaction, and she slides onto the bed and presses her hand into the small of Clint’s back. It’s an affectionate gesture, and Clint tries not to make an embarrassing noise. 

Brunnhilde pulls a chair across the stone floor with a sharp scraping sound and tosses into it, one leg over an armrest and the rest of her slouched across the seat. “I wanted to talk to you about the creature you saw before the gate,” she says. “It has been a while since the Valkyrie have patrolled in that way and I worry we’ve missed something.”

Nat’s fingers press into Clint’s back in a familiar pattern, spelling out their code for _safe / it’s okay _against his spine, without moving more than a twitch. So she’ll be trusting the Valkyrie to some extent, then. That seems fair. Brunnhilde seems like the only person willing to give them anything to go on. 

“In our world,” Nat starts, “well - in our line of work, anyway - we run across a fair number of _incarnations_. A large amount of magic is pumped directly into some sort of well-known myth or legend, which then manifests itself.” Her fingers continue to trace little circles on Clint’s spine, but it doesn’t seem like she’s spelling anything out, so he rests his chin on his folded arms and decides to listen.

“Yes,” says the Valkyrie, and her smile’s something playful and indecipherable. “Actually, we’re well familiar.”

“Do you know the legend of the Baba Yaga?” Nat’s direct. 

Brunnhilde’s face wrinkles up in thought. It’s amusing; Clint’s starting to like her. “I don’t think so.”

“Crazy old murder gramma, lives in a hut with chicken legs, flies around in a mortar and pestle,” Clint offers, because he did his own research the other day and he likes surprising Nat. “Eats people, I think.”

“Baba Yaga isn’t always evil, though,” Nat says.

“What, sometimes she eats people for good?” Brunnhilde is grinning, and Clint snorts a little, because it’s a funny concept. Yeah, he likes her.

Nat shrugs. “She’s a riddler. She’ll offer you a puzzle, or a trick, as a price for her help. She’s more witchy and tricky than _bad._”

“But also eats children.”

“Clint,” Nat sighs. He elbows her and she leans on her hand a bit, pressing him down into the bed. He’s snickering. 

Brunnhilde shakes her head. “I’m not sure I like this,” she says. “A manifestation of Midgardian magic outside the gate to Asgard.” She’s frowning, slightly, her brow wrinkling in thought. “I’ll summon a patrol, and the Valkyries will ride it while the gate is still open. We’ll see if we can find your crazy old witch.”

“I’ll help,” Nat says, and it isn’t really a question; but to Clint’s surprise, the Valkyrie just looks her up and down and then grins. 

“I’d like to see that,” she says. “You can both come.”

———

“You know,” Nat says quietly that night when they’re tucked up in bed, “this whole place is almost a manifestation, right?”

Clint yawns. He’s tired. His brain has been working _all day_ and he hasn’t had any time with the dogs. “Well, yeah,” he says back at Nat, “Norse mythology, right? But this is ...this is too big to just be an incarnation.”

“Yes.” Nat’s eyes close, her head shaking a bit. “This is a reality.”

“What are we going to _do?_” It comes out more of a whine than Clint wants, but he’s _tired_ and he’s frustrated and instead of getting him ready to sleep his brain keeps replaying those few seconds where he wanted to kiss Bucky. 

Nat shrugs, rustling the covers. Clint isn’t sure whether they’ve realized that he and Nat share a bed, because Nat’s such an early riser; it’s for their own protection, guarding each other’s backs, as much as it is the comfort. “I don’t know,” Nat says finally, and it sounds small. Nat knows _everything._ She _hates_ not knowing.

“I mean, it looks fine, right? So do we leave?” Clint shifts, hugging his pillow under his face. He’s torn. He wants to explore this magical world because, seriously, when will they be back here in a place this awesome? There’s a lot of magic here they’ve never even seen. But another part of him just feels… extraneous, useless, and if everything’s alright here they could write it off as mission success and go save the world somewhere else? He doesn’t do well when he’s directionless. It’s not a good space inside his head.

“No, we stay,” Nat says decisively. “For now. If possible, we’ll stay the entire time the gate’s open, to make sure Hydra doesn’t find it. That’s what we came here to do, and we’re going to do it.”

Clint smiles. That’s Nat: always focused on the mission no matter what magical curveballs get thrown at them. It has to be part of her upbringing, the way she can be so nonchalant about these things.

“I’ll check all my feeds tomorrow,” he promises, letting his eyes close. “See if we can figure out—” He’s interrupted by a yawn. “Anythin’ bout Hydra.”

“Sleep, Clint,” Nat says, with fondness in her voice.

Clint bunches up his pillow again until his face is half buried in it and murmurs, “Night, Tasha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DONT KNOW WHY I STRUGGLED WITH THIS SO MUCH but this is meant to be _oooohhhhh the plot is thickening_ and the next chapter should be much easier ugh murder me
> 
> thanks BDBD for all the sprints!


	4. The Sword of Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truths start to come to light, but before everything is made clear, Asgard gets a surprise visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HELLO SURPRISE IM HERE WITH AN UPDATE
> 
> thanks BDBD for the sprinting!

**Chapter Four: The Sword of Eyes**

The next morning, Nat’s made up her mind. Clint can tell just by the way her face is set, as she sips at something that smells a little like tea, perched on the edge of his bed. His sleep here has been nothing but _blessed,_ as if there are spells in the pillows that just help him sink down into darkness. There probably are.

“You look determined,” says Clint, stretching and then turning it into a mostly-graceful roll out of bed. There’s a mug on his bedside table, which smells enough like coffee that Clint figures it’s worth drinking. He perches next to Nat and inhales the hot beverage while Nat tells him what she intends to do.

Like most of Nat’s plans, it’s the path forward that makes the most sense. “You sure?” Clint asks, because she’s so private most of the time.

Tasha nods, and shrugs a little. “Look at this place. It’s _Asgard._ Magic and monsters, Clint. Even with what we’ve been through, this is… beyond our understanding. Nothing we ever trained for.”

Clint shrugs, and reaches out to squeeze her hand. She waits for him to get dressed in his tac suit again, and he faithfully follows her out of their rooms, around to the hall where they’ve been eating. There, Nat catches someone’s arm, and asks for Thor.

It’s only a few minutes until he appears. Clint and Nat are happily served a meal that looks the same as yesterday’s, and Clint’s trying not to shovel it all into his mouth already.

“My new friends!” Thor greets them booming and smiling, as if he’s never been anything but. “How are the tables of Asgard treating you today?”

“Good,” Clint tells him, “thank you.”

“Thor,” Natasha says. She turns towards him but doesn’t stand, although she ducks her head a little. “I would ask you for permission to address your court regarding the coming attack.”

Thor’s certainly a little caught off-guard, and for a second he looks a little wounded, as if he’s saddened that Natasha doesn’t believe him, but he recovers quickly. “Of course, my lady, but. Many of us have other responsibilities throughout our lands. It is not a thing that can be done quickly.”

Nat nods. “How soon could a council be gathered?”

“Give me three days,” Thor says decisively. “We will meet on the third day.” When Nat doesn’t say anything else, Thor bows to her, a respectful angle to it Clint hasn’t seen before, and leaves. 

“Well,” Clint says into the silence that follows, “that’s that.”

———

The first day, Clint seeks Bucky out. What, he’s predictable. He’s friendly, he’s attracted to the guy, and they’ve already had at least two conversations. Practically best friends, right? Absolutely makes sense.

He decides to accompany Bucky on his rounds, which Bucky accepts with a minimal amount of eye-rolling. See? Best friends. 

“So what, do you do this daily?”

Bucky’s mouth is set in a firm line, but he answers easily enough. “Something like it. Asgard’s peaceful enough, but there are — the little things. Arguments. Disagreements.” He pauses, and then adds: “People come to the Royal Guard with their problems, and we do our best to solve them.”

“Solve them,” Clint starts. “What, the major crimes of Asgard? You’re the enforcers?”

Bucky gives him this grin, then, half-amused and half-conservative. “In a way. It’s more the _petty crimes_ of Asgard that end up falling across our path.”

“Huh,” Clint says, curious. “And what are the petty crimes of Asgard?”

To his surprise, Bucky’s grin turns tops-up, and Clint tries not to flush too much at that expression. “I’m sure we’ll come across some. Mostly disagreements, little arguments. This guy’s dog killed this other lady’s sheep. This man threw up on my lawn while drunk and I want him to pay damages. It’s all small, the kind of thing that just needs a third party to listen to and make a decision about.”

“You’re a _civil cop,_” Clint says, delighted. “You’re a civil court judge. In a fancy uniform.” And it’s definitely fancy; Bucky’s in tight pants and a tucked-in shirt with some kind of armored vest over it that falls to the middle of his thighs. It’s decorated with symbols and medals, and tapered at the waist. God, Bucky’s shoulders are broad. Clint wants to sit on them. Not like in a piggy-back ride way, either.

“I guess?” Bucky says, but he’s smiling, and they continue their walk along his route.

Occasionally someone will approach Bucky: tentatively at first, but when Clint realizes it’s _his_ presence making people reluctant, he starts stepping back to give the people of Asgard access to their… hottest civil court lawyer, or whatever. He’s close enough to hear most of it, of course, but he spends the time looking his fill at the architecture and landscape. This piece of Asgard - wherever they are - has the feeling of some sort of medieval farmland, except that Clint can see people plowing and watering and working using all kinds of equipment. It’s all glowing blue, too, powered by whatever magic it is that powers Bucky’s arm and the other things in the rooms they’re staying in. 

It’s certainly an educational walk. Clint learns more about the structure of how the non-royalty of Asgard live their lives; in many ways it seems like whatever magic they have here works somewhat like the technology Clint knows from his own world. They seem a peaceful people; their civil disputes are mostly genial, and Bucky makes decisions slowly and carefully that seem fair enough to the people Clint absolutely isn’t watching.

And he learns about Bucky. He learns Bucky approaches everything deliberately, taking the time to listen and observe before commenting — he does this not just with his people but with Clint, as well, giving himself time to swallow Clint’s words before spitting out his response. Bucky seems serious, but underneath that veneer there’s a sarcastic quip for every situation, and Clint finds _that_ fascinating: the contrast of a soldier’s duty and a sense of grave focus Clint recognizes, paired with a keen sense of humor that has an edge.

Clint’s well aware that he and Bucky are circling each other. Clint is, first and foremost, an _observer:_ you can’t be an _archer_ and not be absolutely, terrifyingly, deeply vigilant about all of your surroundings. He probably knows better than Bucky does, although Bucky isn’t a slouch himself; Clint catches the glances at him, the way Bucky’s eyes linger on his face, tracking the telltale signs of little lies. He’d think it was flirting, but there’s something that’s just a bit too tense about it, and they’re both aware of it. 

The day ends with Bucky and Clint next to each other at the table, Steve and Nat and Brunnhilde across from them, chattering casually as they tear apart something that tastes like pork. Bucky’s thigh is pressed up against his, and Clint leaves his in place, pressing back: if that’s the challenge, he’s not backing down now.

———

The third day dawns with Clint spitting pillow out of his mouth - apparently his sleeping self had decided to consume the pillowcase - and reaching for where Nat had been just a moment ago. 

“Wake up, Clint.” Her voice is cool and amused, but there’s an edge to it. Clint knows she isn’t looking forward to today, but she also sounds the way she does when she’s made any difficult decision: absolutely focused on moving forward. Clint has no idea what it must have been like, Nat growing up as she did, but it’s these pieces he sees of her that make him want to resurrect her entire family (oh, it’s possible) just for the pleasure of killing them all himself.

“Fuck off,” he tries to say, but it comes out more like a mumble. His jaw doesn’t work this early. He misses coffee. Asgard has something that’s similar, but it isn’t _quite_ the same. Clint tries to correct himself, but more garbage comes out of his mouth so he decides to focus on opening his eyes instead.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” Tasha tells him. “I’m off to wash.” There’s a pause, a bit tense, and then she adds: “I need you, Clint.”

She’s gone the moment she says it, because Nat hates saying things like that. Clint knows. She doesn’t have to say it aloud for him to know that she needs him around: her one person who won’t ever ask her to be anything she’s not; her one person who understands the darker side of justice and won’t fault her on that, either. Clint knows what he and Nat are to each other. He’s accepted it.

So, despite the fact that all of his limbs want to stay stationary forever, Clint eventually wrestles himself up into a sitting position. Nat has left a mug of whatever the Asgardians use as coffee on the bedside table. It’s a sweet gesture.

Clint sips at it and thinks. He isn’t sure how Nat wants to approach this. He’s ready to back her however he needs to, because he’s anxious down in the base bones of his spine, a weird song singing a low note that resonates. There’s some reason they’re here; Nat’s magic has never led them astray, not like this, and if this is the day then this is the day.

———

Steve and Bucky are waiting outside their door when they leave. They’re dressed in their usual armor, the outfit Bucky wore to do his rounds, and Clint takes a moment to appreciate it. Steve’s shoulders are even broader than Bucky’s, and they’re both looking unwontedly serious. Steve’s vest has different medals than Bucky’s, and Clint wonders what they all mean. Wonders if they’ll get the chance to find out, or if they’ll be tossed back out into their own world. 

He and Nat are dressed in their own gear; they’ve made repairs and cleaned it and polished what needs to shine in the three-day interim. They’d discussed in low voices, across the pillow, what would make the most impact; Nat had considered Asgardian formalwear, and then Asgardian uniform, but in the end they’d both agreed to present themselves entirely as they were. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing different.

Steve and Bucky are oddly silent, and Clint catches a few nervous glances between them. He knows the two Asgardians are holding something secret; he hopes that Nat’s right. They need more information than they have.

They’re led to what is very obviously a room designed specifically for formal meetings. There’s a table in the middle, shaped somewhat like a plus sign, or the letter t: two long tables crossing each other. At the end of one arm there are two incredibly elaborate thrones, both empty. Across from that arm, Thor sits at the right hand of a man they haven’t met yet. Steve and Bucky lead them to the arm to that man’s left, and Clint gestures for Nat to sit at what’s probably the head. He sits at her left, because he wants to be able to see Thor’s reactions. 

Steve and Bucky settle in at the other end of the cross, which is interesting. As far as Clint knows, they’re both in Thor’s Royal Guard, but apparently they have some bearing on what is to be discussed here as well. Steve takes the seat, with Bucky at his right, and Bucky turns to meet Clint’s gaze as he settles in. There’s something set about the man’s sharp jawline, something Clint’s reading as _well, finally._

Other folks fill in the spaces. Clint catches Valkyrie, who grins at them both saucily before settling in next to Thor; the group Thor affectionately calls the Warriors Three sits down across from her. The seats are backless stools, rather than chairs, probably so that everyone can turn to watch whomever is speaking. Some faces are familiar; others are not. Clint watches Nat out of the corner of his eye, and follows her lead, letting his face relax into resting neutrality.

———

Finally, a hush falls over the hall as Thor stands, gesturing for all others to do so. “We rise,” he announces, and Clint’s never been so aware that he’s living in a _myth_ until right now, “for the Queen and Lady of Asgard.”

Clint stands with everyone else, and turns to watch. At first it’s like a beam of light, almost too bright to see, and then — it’s a woman, lovely and serene, wearing years in her face. Her hair is burnished gold and her gown is the finest silver, wrought with glints that might be threads and beads worked into its fabric. She’s comforting, but in a way that is just the slightest bit… _off._ Otherworldly. 

A woman in armor is leading her down the stairs and into one of the ornate thrones. This woman is dark of hair and fierce of face, all bulk and angles, sharp like the weapon she has sheathed at her side. And yet she gently deposits the Queen into the throne, as careful as any lover, taking care to then seat herself at her lady’s side.

“Odin sleeps,” the Queen announces, and her voice is both soft and stern. Clint is already a little in love with her. “But I am here.” Her gaze flickers over the gathering, then to Thor, then to the tall, dark man that stands across from her. 

“You may sit,” she says gently. “My son, and the Sword of the All-Seeing.”

They sit, and the group follows suit. 

Thor begins, and his eyes are on Tasha as he talks. “The lady Natasha, a visitor from Midgard, has asked to address our council regarding the issues that have brought her and her companion to our doorstep, here during the Forty Days of Darkness.” He extends a hand at Natasha, and just like that, it has begun. “Please, speak.”

Nat stands. Clint leans back in his chair so that he can flick his eyes over the entire table, watching reactions. “In order to understand why we’re here,” she starts, “I need to explain who I am.” Only Clint can hear the pause in her words before she says, more calmly than Clint has ever heard her say it: “My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. And my family is—”

“I know you,” says the dark-skinned man beside Thor. Clint looks closely. His face is noble, handsome, as if carved from deep shadows of stone; his eyes, as they look Nat over, are glowing bronze. The man pulls a sword out from beside him - Clint freezes, hands already on his guns - and lays it gently across the table in front of him.

“I see you, Natalia Romanova,” he says. 

Nat simply meets his gaze. Thor shifts in his seat, and then says, “This is Heimdall, keeper of the Bifrost and the All-Seeing. He watches over every realm that is of Asgard.”

As far as Clint can tell, those golden glowing owl-eyes have not blinked once; then again, Nat probably hasn’t either. “Then you know of my family,” she says. 

Heimdall nods. “I have seen them.”

Nat reaches into her tac vest, pulls out the brooch she’d brought for this. She uses the pin to prick the tip of her finger, then taps at the bottom of the brooch so that her blood sits on the surface. As she raises her palm, the brooch rises above it, spinning gently in the air, refracting light from the thousand candles around them.

“Romanova magic is blood magic,” she says. 

There’s a rumbling around the table at that, as they’d expected. Clint crosses his arms over his chest, leaning one elbow up against the table, letting his gaze sweep the crowd. “After learning what my family has done with magical relics for thousands of years,” Nat says, and Clint’s so, _so_ proud of the way she keeps all of it out of her voice; “I have dedicated my life to tracking down magical artifacts that can cause harm, and neutralizing them.”

She lets the brooch fall to the table with a sharp clatter, pulling her hand back to her side in a quick fist. Clint watches. Thor’s eyes are on Heimdall, as are Steve’s. The Queen is simply watching them all, much as Clint is. 

“If you know who I am,” she addresses Heimdall, “then you know the resources that are available to me, and the truth of what they forecast. So when I say we were sent here to keep the Tesseract out of evil hands, you know the weight behind that.”

Heimdall looks at her for a long stretch, and then the glow fades from his eyes. Clint isn’t surprised to find them a warm brown, nearly friendly, except for the power they bear. “She speaks the truth,” he announces finally, and the people at the table all shift, as if a declaration has been made.

“And your friend?”

Clint looks up to find those gold-glowing eyes on him. It’s intense; he can _feel_ the gaze on him, almost like the man is looking through his eyes into the back of his skull. It’s uncomfortable, but — “Oh, hell, I’m nobody,” Clint stammers, although he at least sits up straight again. “I’m just along for the ride.”

Heimdall continues to stare. Clint looks back, thinks about sticking his tongue out. Even if the man _can_ see inside his brain, what _exactly_ is he gonna find? Clint’s circus training, his shitty parents, the dark path he was on before he and Nat ran into each other and decided to lay down that first step onto a bridge of trust? Shit, Clint can throw in a couple hilarious sexual encounters for the guy; his brain’s a goddamn _movie._

Finally, Heimdall speaks. “I doubt that most sincerely,” he says, “but you are at least right in that it is not relevant at the moment.”

Clint tries his absolute hardest to keep his mouth from twisting up. No, Clint Barton is nothing big, and _that’s okay._ Clint doesn’t need to be anything more than what he is.

Heimdall opens his hand to Nat again, and she gives him a slight, polite nod. 

“Clint,” Nat begins, with a gesture towards him so that - at least - everyone here will know Clint’s name, “monitors intelligence back in our world.” And Clint’s still a bit dazzled by that, knowing that this isn’t just some kind of incarnation or imagined place, but a real other world. “He marked that Hydra transmissions - that’s our enemy, Hydra, or one of them - were discussing the Tree of Immortality and the Tesseract.”

She glances at Clint, and he jerks his head back at her. She’s welcome to continue telling the story. These Asgardians seem a formal lot, and he’s far too likely to make dick jokes out of sheer nerves.

“I checked my family’s library, and with their information, we came to seek out the Apples of Immortality, to protect them from whatever force Hydra will bring to obtain them.” Nat pauses, and Clint sees as she deliberately unfists her hands; it’s one of her _very few_ tells. “We did not know until arriving here that the Tree, the Apples, and the Tesseract were a single thing.”

Oh, but that’s clever. By admitting a weakness - a thing Tasha very rarely does - she’s opening a door for them to give her more information. It’s a good play.

Thor chimes in, booming voice echoing in the filled room. “What does Midgard know of the Tesseract, then? Why is Hydra searching for it?”

Clint watches as Steve frowns, and Bucky leans in to press his elbow up against Steve’s arm, although neither of them move to say anything. Belatedly he realizes that Nat is waiting for him to answer. 

“Uh, as far as my network could tell, Hydra doesn’t know they’re the same thing either. They’re looking for both, under a number of different terms, but never as a single item.”

“Do you know why?”

Clint shrugs. “It’s Hydra. They’re always looking to get their hands on anything that retains power in Midgard. Probably have records on it from when Captain America took it away and want to get it back. I don’t know.” Clint has a lot of shady contacts in a lot of interesting places, but his name and his money only go _so_ far into the inner workings of Hydra. 

“That makes sense for the Tesseract,” the Valkyrie says slowly, “but how do they know about the apples?”

It’s Nat’s turn to shrug. “My family did,” she says simply. “Enough to have written directions. There’s no reason Hydra wouldn’t also know.”

“Hmm,” Thor says, and looks back at Heimdall.

The man’s eyes are gleaming again, copper-bright, and the entire table waits until Heimdall says, “I see this, as well. Their intentions I cannot see from here, but the facts are visible.”

“Are they a threat?”

It’s the first thing the Queen has said since she had joined them at the table, and her voice rings clear as a bell through the room.

“How can they be?” Thor replies, after a few moments where the loveliness of her voice seems to have befuddled everybody. “They are of Midgard, my lady mother. We here in Asgard have power and strength they do not.”

The Queen’s gaze turns to look at Clint, then Nat. It’s less threatening than Heimdall’s, but no less otherworldly, and Clint is reminded that in these portions of the world these beings are practically _gods._ “Are they a threat, Natalia Alianovna Romanova?”

Nat pauses to think, and Clint’s so proud of her, so fucking proud. “They are to us,” she replies. “I have no gauge against which to judge the strength of Asgard, my lady. But they are not an army of average humans — Midgard people.” The correction makes her swallow, and Clint huffs the smallest laugh, one only she will hear. “Hydra has dabbled in the occult and the magical nearly as long as my own family. They are more powerful than your average army.”

“All-Seeing,” the Queen says, and then repeats a third time: “Are they a threat?”

At this the blaze in Heimdall’s eyes goes _up,_ like paper suddenly catching fire; the intensity is such that Clint’s surprised he isn’t burning a hole in the table. His eyes are sharp sparks, and the corona around his head mists with gold and bronze, and Clint feels the force of it washing over his skin. 

“They could be,” Heimdall says finally, the light fading until his eyes are simple gold. “My Queen, my lady Frigga. They are not immediately, but they could be.”

The Queen opens her mouth to say something, but there’s an eager pounding at the door, and when Thor barks, “Enter!”, it swings open to reveal a woman in what Clint can now recognize as Valkyrie armor, spear in hand, panting for breath.

“My lady, my lords, All-Sight,” she addresses them, in a rush. “I am sorry, but I come bearing important news.”

There’s still a pause where she waits to deliver it, and Clint tries not to smile when Thor says - obviously gritting his teeth for patience - “Yes?”

“There is a skirmish at our gates, a most deadly one. The specter our guests have seen has returned, but not to — to attack us, yet.”

“What’s it doing?” Steve asks, standing from his seat. “Who is it attacking?”

Clint glances over at Nat. She’s sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, and she looks back at him perfectly calmly. Clint grins. It’ll be nice to get some payback on that weird Baba Yaga creature.

“My lady, my lord, my esteemed soldiers-in-arms,” the woman gasps. “Loki has returned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, yeah, I know I'm starting and posting fics all the time. But it doesn't mean I'm abandoning a WIP unless I post or edit the description saying so. 
> 
> On average, in 2020, I have written 1500 words a day. (And that includes days I can't write for crap, so a better way to take it in is this: if I sit down to write I'm putting out about 2K per day.) I haven't stopped writing and I haven't given up on any of my open works. I just often have to reprioritize based on commissions, or based on my own ADHD mind-wandering. I am most absolutely still writing everything!
> 
> That being said, comments do make me write faster <3

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be updated (hopefully) weekly, stands at around 8 chapters at the moment unless I decide to add an additional subplot, and ends up very thickly Winterhawk even though Borky doesn't appear in this chapter at all.


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